Sustenance
by Enolu
Summary: There is no sustenance in the past.


_A/N: Reviews are love._

X

When she bothers at all, her cooking is usually quick, a bit makeshift, rough, and surprisingly inspired. She strays from recipes as easily as one would hum a tune - plucks from the mostly-neglected potted thyme and shreds leaves into a browning, fragrant omelette; pinches a bit of masala tea into the pancakes that she whips up for their breakfast; simmers the leftover roast into a silky stew overnight while they make love.

He observes that she doesn't look at any recipes. She has that amusing, but also infuriating habit of settling on cooking and cuisine shows when they channnel-surf, and she frequently scorns the detailed, admittedly complicated instruction and measurements.

She cooks however she likes to, never really moving away from the basics, and she usually makes it all look so easy.

X

They're walking in a crowded street today, gulls screaming with their white and black-tipped wings overhead.

She had hinted that she would be here waiting when she'd seen him at the signing of the latest peace accords. He'd found her as she'd hoped, sitting with a dozen other people around the fountains and keeping their heads low to avoid the buskers and gypsies.

She was hoping to get a taste of this place that she'd read about and wanted to try for a while. He'd flicked out his virtual map, but then she suggested they might as well wander about when they'd spend the rest of the day together, and he agreed. He'll only need to get back to Orb on Sunday.

Now, she marvels at how simple things can be, even though people like them have probably lost some touch with normality. In these moments, they're so free, and it's incredible.

With their hair tucked beneath caps, nobody really cares or sees who they are. Around them, a mix of all the different languages and the standard tongue thread the patchwork of stalls and brightly-painted boats floating in the water. This street in Oslo is too busy for a person to notice anyone particularly, and the harbour promenade is humming with people under a clear sky.

His dark-rimmed glasses make him look so different, and she fights back a giggle whenever she looks up at him. He's developed astigmatism over his years of piloting, but he's somehow reluctant to go for a simple laser operation, and his aversion to going under the knife to fix it is baffling to her.

She tucks her hand under his arm for warmth, and he hugs it close to him, putting their hands into his coat pocket, smiling. Their breath comes as little puffs of mist, because it's still cold - his cheeks are pink with the nippy air.

They turn a corner near an ice cream stand, past the peace memorial wall where her father's name and theirs are inscribed. In the distance, the opera house looms white and blinding, sharp mimicry of an iceberg in the azure. Part of it had been destroyed during the wars, but it had been built to look futuristic all those centuries ago. Now, it still looks relevant in the landscape.

She looks at him staring far ahead, at the bobbing boats, the jagged fjords and those relentless birds swooping over the water. He's relaxed, but he's looking out for something - whatever it is that only he can see. She takes her hand away and moves to the ice cream stand, distracted by the ringing bells. He follows.

"I'm buying. What flavour do you want?"

"Not cold enough for you?" he says.

"No better time to eat ice cream than in winter." She quips. "Look, you can get us coffee after this. Or tea, in your case."

She fumbles with coins while the payment and service automaton scoops and stands by patiently. She ignores the cashless payment option that it directs her to - it's another way to avoid being tracked - and buys them both cones, not engaging in too much conversation with the shopkeeper. She takes the cherry yoghurt, and he takes the mint, and they wander along, enjoying the winter sun.

Then somebody spots a film star and people rush up to ask for photographs and autographs. The world is a little more dizzying and colourful for that moment, and somebody nearly trips her.

He tenses, on alert, like he wants to shield her, as if he has to protect her, when all she's ever done is to use him. Those symptoms have come and gone over this decade, and it's so, so rare these days. But from her reading and the private advice that her twin provided, she understands that one cannot be entirely cured from post-trauma syndrome.

And so she tugs at him to make him look back at her. His eyes, narrowed behind his glasses, blink suddenly, and he seems to focus and right himself. Despite the winter, the ice cream cone in his hand is dripping. She should have asked for cups.

She wonders when the right time will ever come to discuss the recurring flashes of his anxiety and how he sometimes wakes up, next to her, with that strangled cry. But then she doesn't even know if their time will ever come, and whether the present is all that they'll ever have before it breaks off, as abruptly as a lost signal in space.

"Sorry." he says quietly. He swallows, a bit too hard. "I got distracted."

"All good." she says cheerfully, like they aren't taking risks like this without their bodyguards - like she knows any better what their days ahead will hold. But if it's good enough for him, right now, it's good enough for her.

A bunch of sprightly, careless teenagers run up, past them, trying to get to the celebrity. She squints and sees that the cause of the commotion is the newest pop singing sensation, a young and fetching man whose voice is supposedly that one in a million. That's what they used to say about Lacus.

The both of them just walk on by.

X

Where she is now, she can afford almost anything.

She has a substantial annual stipend as a member of Orb nobility, although she has always donated this to various charities since she took power. She had once protested about publicising that information, but now she actively has it made known.

As the lead Emir and head of state, she makes sure that she earns an extremely modest salary as compared to the leaders of other Earth Alliance territories. It's all a bit self-serving; she doesn't need to earn that much when she's inheriting everything from the Athas before her. But it is what it is - she's become a master of the game, beyond reproach, and hand on her heart, she's learned to enjoy it.

Undoubtedly, he earns enough to save and invest. But for his lack of most other skills, he wouldn't have minded leaving the military. Even if he stopped working, he would have a minimal, but sufficient pension from the Plants on account of his role in the wars. Of course, any cynic would say that he was fortunate each time that he defected the side he left for won.

He thought he'd die in those wars, but he lived. He lives in his penthouse in a gated area of Orb that he's shown her how to access directly, and he has other properties to enjoy in any season.

She knows that he furnishes those houses with paintings and sculptures that are as beautiful as valuable, even if they don't stay for long when they're traded for profit at his financial advisor's recommendation and arrangement.

Like her, he has properties and bank accounts in different territories, and they have state of the art security systems, transport networks, and automatons that can protect their lifestyles and secrets. They've been lucky to inherit sizeable fortunes, and having nearly any material possession or comfort is easily within their means. Most of it is.

If he wanted, he could afford any meal of his whim, as she can. He isn't fussy about food, but he too, has tasted and knows how to appreciate the most skilfully-assembled dishes of the utmost quality. He could go wherever he wanted, live however he wanted, and they both should be living and eating very well, considering their finances and circumstances.

They do, these days. And she's painfully aware that for all that she has, she can't really share what she wants to with him.

X

Often, whether it's a by-product of getting the job done, or purely for pleasure, she finds herself at the best restaurants, at a private table, in an exclusive room, sometimes with breathtaking views.

During these meals, she indulges in the rarest of flavours and freshest of ingredients. As a close friend had remarked, if you're going to stake your life and reason to be on your country's future, you might as well get all your kicks.

It's true, of course. The meals that she has these days are completely different from those in the years when they'd met. During the wars, food in space had been rationed and extremely limited in light of the storage issues. Soldiers on missions had been equipped with food bars. Those didn't taste of much, but they were portable, lightweight, extremely nutritious, and always stored carefully.

The memories of those food rations and how they'd been extremely thin and borderline underweight, are far away now. Those days are over and they're in an age of prosperity and peace that she's sworn to protect. She's even begun to appreciate the taste of wine, which she never really used to understand.

Nowadays, there's enough food for her to push away her plate, and there's impetus to employ a physical instructor to maintain her fitness and serve her vanity. As she'd remarked wryly to Lacus recently, the day had come when she'd bothered with the scales.

On most days, she has chefs that her personal assistants could call on at short notice at any point, save when he's with her, and they wouldn't risk having another person know about their arrangements.

She's still at a level of fitness to do the job that she's waged her life and her father's legacy on, even if piloting as she once did would probably be impossible. But without knowing exactly when, her body's become womanly. Her thighs, rear, hips and breasts have grown fuller, and the thinness of her fingers has changed. When she'd taken out and tried on his ring from her bedside drawer a few months ago, for no real reason, really, she'd found that it couldn't really fit.

X

They often have to prepare their own meals when they're together. While their most trusted bodyguards ensure that they can meet in private, their encounters are usually inaccessible to anyone else. The thought of ordering even a pizza into a heavily-guarded property on a whim is almost laughable.

He doesn't mind though. He doesn't mind the practical inconveniences of their trysts - or whatever spending time with her is supposed to be known as. He had hoped, for the years after the wars, that he would satisfy and exhaust any inchoate feelings for her.

He had hoped too, that the recurring flashbacks, moments of complete emotional numbness and interrupted sleep would be completely cured one day. He wanted to grow tired of hiding and seeing her in these circumstances; become jaded with her company and the difficulties of who they are and the people that they've become.

But it's been slightly more than a decade since the Second War now, and so he knows better.

X

He prefers baking to cooking. Perhaps the science and precision of getting dough to rise requires less effort and flair for a person like him.

There's often no reason for him to bake, but he's found on each ocassion that he somehow has a knack for it. He's not half-bad at decorating too. Still, he doesn't have a sweet tooth and doesn't really enjoy any form of sugar or cream except in very limited circumstances.

His cooking, on the other hand, is an heirloom retained from a too-brief childhood, when his mother used to stand in the kitchen and roll up her sleeves.

His mother had enjoyed preparing her own jams, basting meats, and even taken on the tediousness of baking. This was despite her husband's insistence on maintaining all the automatons, the cook, the butler and the housekeeper. His father had employed plenty of staff, as if to compensate for his frequent absence from the extremely large, extremely empty house.

Later, when he was eight and his father had directed that he shift out of Coppernicus to attend boarding school in September City, he had learned rudimentary cooking as part of home economics, alongside design and technology, and the compulsory sciences and arts. It was just another skill to have, and he never cooked for anyone in particular.

Much later when his parents were both dead, he would still associate certain dishes with his mother and the way his father had smiled on those rare occasions when they'd eaten together as a family.

X

She's become mature enough to diagnose that a great deal of what's sustained these years is anchored by lust. He's as attractive as she remembers - even more so with the years, perhaps. Those have made him even more mature, and his time in the military has moulded his body as much as his history.

Sometimes, when he strips down and goes swimming with her, near the cliffs or in the beach of the island she owns, she looks at him and wonders when he'll get bored of her. For all her exploiting of others and the calculated hedonism of trying to prove she doesn't need him at all, there's nobody except him who makes her feel so strongly.

And there are plenty of days, she's stared at his eyes and thought about how beautiful and sad those seem, and she's doubted how anyone could not want to take him close and love him. Lust may have made them seek each out, but she knows that her love for him makes her want him to stay.

When they meet, it can be so brief, she wonders if she'd imagined him sneaking out with her to explore the streets, or reading something to her. There have been times when they had such hurried sex - she'd found herself on several occasions holding video conferences or taking calls with his come still warm and damp between her thighs and on her back, or breasts and belly, underneath her formal jacket.

But with him, she's as bold as she never thought she would be. Once, she had him come with her mouth and hands, all while he answered a call to the minister of defence and the other generals from his office. He'd been remarkably steady, but in he end, he'd had to end the call early when she'd traced his perineum with the tip of her tongue and dipped into him - so much for that self-control and iron mask, she'd mocked. He'd retaliated spectacularly.

Their encounters reveal a forwardness and aggression that one would have never guessed from his general demeanour.

X

Sometimes, over these years, when he looks like he might say more than he should, or she catches herself doing more for him than she ought to, she stops them. She says they can't win all the time. He too, knows that what they have is more than what some people dream of having. They both understand that.

They do find ways to spend days and even weeks in each other's company. When fortune favours their plans, there's time to talk and joke, or even remain silent for hours at an end; sometimes with enough to have a meal or a few together.

And when he's walking past her in a corridor when they're masquerading; when he's nodding off to sleep in front of the television re-runs; trussing her up and tying her up in his formal white shirt and fucking her stupid until she nearly says that she'll never let anyone else touch her; when he's explaining what he really thinks of the recent policies implemented, and arguing with her about anything from life and death issues to why she should quit criticising celebrity chefs - that's when she knows that she'll never love anyone else the way she loves him.

X

Today, they gorge on a dizzying array of steaming, cheesy pizza while watching television in Markio's orphanage's living room, because junk food is reserved for such special occasions. There are paprika wings, toasted s'mores, soda and ice-cream and even some salad, although the latter is mostly ignored.

Lacus likes her pizza with mushroom, and Kira likes anchovies. Then Cagalli says that she likes all types, but she really likes pineapple on pizza, and Markio manages to look exceedingly disapproving, despite him not even looking in her direction.

The children had brought out colourful party streamers and paper hats from the storeroom. There are birthdays all year round with how many children there are, and they recycle these so often that some are a bit faded. But it's all in good fun.

The birthday girl, Dahnia, is beaming and clapping her hands as Kira puts the birthday crown on her. Dahnia is twelve this year, and would be considered nearly adult in the Plants, by Coordinator standards. But in Orb, the age of consent is fourteen, and as far as Markio's concerned, people are welcome to stay for as long as they need and for as long as he can provide.

Her nephew and niece are nearly lost in the gaggle of children who are playing and constantly moving around. But for the younger girl's cherry blossom hair that's even paler than her mother's, Cagalli would not have been able to spot them properly.

At some point, the six-year old Jorne leaps from a couch, and clings to Kira. Kira swings him around, and then Jorne launches and jumps onto Athrun like a monkey, begging for piggyback rides. And when Athrun obliges, the kids all clamour for the same.

"Now now." Lacus says, and teasingly holds a slice of pizza to Kira's lips, while he's preoccupied with bouncing another child on his back. "They won't be able to eat."

"You can feed him." Markio says to Cagalli, inclining his head in Athrun's direction. "He must be starving."

She ignores Markio, because he's supposed to be blind.

But Dahnia comes up to her, smiling, then puts a plate of pizza into her hands.

"Athrun's waiting to be fed too." Dahnia says, and Cagalli feels a dull flush coming up her cheeks as Athrun stiffens, still carrying Jorne on his back. He looks startled, and she's all too familiar with that polite, guarded smile of his.

She had held his face between her hands just weeks ago, kissing him long and hard the way that she'll always want to. He had tried to say something the last time, but she had stopped him with a kiss. She never tells him that she's afraid that he'll leave and won't come back to her.

But they aren't supposed to be more than friends when they're both visiting here. Hell, they're not supposed to be more than friends anywhere, anytime. These kids aren't the same ones those years ago, right after the First War. Since then, they've taken pains not to touch and seem too friendly in front of everyone else.

Still, when the other kids and even Lacus start egging her on, Cagalli gives in, swipes at the pizza slice, and goes to him. He looks at her; seems so different out of his uniforms and the formal wear that she usually meets him in.

He goes strangely still even though Jorne is still clinging to his back, and he parts his lips for a bite when she lifts it to him. He chews a little, quite awkward, and somehow she can't quite look him in the eye.

Next to them, Kira notices and straightens up. He lets the child on his back slide off, and says, "Alright, that's enough. Let's take a break and go for some sea breeze, shall we?"

Athrun looks away from her, still looking that way that she sometimes sees when they meet on official business, or when he makes public appearances. This slice doesn't have the ingredients that he likes best - he likes olives and artichokes on his pizza.

She puts the slice back on the plate. Her fingers are oily and she goes back to the food table to wipe them on a napkin, then takes a swig of soda, feeling extremely foolish.

X

He believes that he likes baking more than cooking.

Her breasts, belly and thighs are floury with powdered sugar, smeared with the excess from their efforts at baking, with white cream and strawberry jam everywhere. Now that he's had a taste, he reckons that the consistency of their sponge and jam cake is successful on balance, although it's misshapen and really quite ugly. The delicate sponge had collapsed - it had been in the mixer for too long, and there'd been too much air. He licks at her navel again, and it makes her laugh. The cream quivers on her, and he decides he likes how this baking attempt has gone so far.

The kitchen is just a corridor away from the room where her father's key administrative staff had held office and once explained the daily agenda. It's bare now, save for the most basic of furniture.

She has a study, but she won't hold office like that in her house, because she prefers to keep those separate. The kitchen is large and airy, facing the cliffs, and the cream and jam is already cooling and becoming tackier on her flesh.

Any reasonable human would have been scandalised, he thinks, and he smiles, adjusting himself slightly from where he'd been occupied, and looks at her knowingly. It's lucky that he'd tied his hair with a cord during the baking - the strands that escaped across those sharp cheeks are sticky with the powdered sugar and halved strawberries that he'd poured all over her. "You planned this when you bought all that extra whipped cream, didn't you?"

"It was as spontaneous as you wearing so little to go with that apron." she retorts.

"It's been so warm lately." he says, then licks again at her, hearing her bite back an oath, because she's ticklish there. "And baking is so humid."

"Bullshit. You put on that apron like that because you're a filthy tease. Also, if you really cared about that bloody cake, you would have kept your hands on the dough and the mixer."

"You can't blame a man for wanting you." he says huskily, tracing his fingers across her belly and moving himself to dip his tongue in her naval.

He presses his curved hardness, thick and unrelenting against her belly, and it's warmer than anything he was suffering in the kitchen. She touches him lightly with a sticky-sweet finger, then laughs, almost cruel, at how he stifles a sound of discomfort. She looks so different from how she'd seemed a few days ago, speaking to her Cabinet and asking the pointed questions that she had.

He breathes deeply, brushing a lock of hair away from her cheek. "I'm barely holding it together - I want you so much."

"Show me." She laughs at him, at how helpless he is. Then she cards her fingers through his hair, unbinding the cord, and guides him back to her breasts. He gives her a thorough teasing with his mouth and teeth as she'd wanted, licks and sucks her jam-streaked nipples clean until she's mouthing gibberish and those delectable nubs are swollen, gummy and ruby with his attentions.

He laves a syrupy trail down to her thighs to taste, hooking her ankles over his shoulders and easing into her, just teasing her with the tip. She keens, drawing her hips in those tiny, maddening little circles. He thinks that she had been even sweeter than usual, but then there are so many other ways to devour her.

When he knows that she's ready, he shifts himself in a neat flip, and has her above him. It's all the signal that she needs to move and grind roughly against him, and she parts herself and eases down, slick and honeyed, bringing him into her and tightening around him, moaning at how he fills her so deeply. Some years ago, he had once watched another man have her - they've never spoken of it since, but he knows that he'll never allow that again. He'd made that quite clear.

"You know, I might make this a regular thing if cooking with you always involves this." she forces out, breathing deeply to steady herself.

"Baking." he corrects, like that even fucking matters now. He moves their hips slowly and languidly in the circular patterns of lovemaking and she finds it in her to roll her eyes.

"Don't be pedantic. Look, how - how, oh there, there - how are we going to explain the lack of a dessert to Lacus?"

"We'll just buy one along the way." He doesn't even pause, moving his hips slowly and pressing deeper in. Her walls cling to him however he moves, and he suddenly bucks up, rough, trying to make her lose her control.

Only her years of practice and her job allow her to keep her voice mostly steady. She rides him expertly, keeping his pace in check. "No, it's too much hassle to avoid cameras. I'll send - send somebody to get it."

He begins thrusting harder in earnest, and she gasps with pleasure and sensation, bearing down on him harder and shuddering."If only the cake had been successful."

"If only you didn't sample the goods, more like. You weren't stirring the batter properly." Her voice is deeper and rougher now.

"You were the one pawing at me." he says, quite amused.

"You're the one who suggested playing with the leftover ingredients! What the hell was I thinking, letting you do this?" She presses her hands down on his abdomen, slowly being pulled along with his rhythm.

"I don't know." he says archly, watching her ride him and bringing her fingers to his lips to lick the cream off. "And fuck all if I care now."

X

Between them, they've likely sampled the finest of foods. There are plenty of state events for them to attend as part of their work, even if they'd realky rather not.

When they'd encountered each other at a gala in Aprilius a few months ago, they and a hundred other guests had been served pimento and feta-stuffed olives and dates. There had been roasted quail with bourbon lashings, cassava and mozzarella ravioli, asparagus and cod, a melon and mint salad, and the most divine raspberry and dark chocolate Eton mess, topped only by exquisite coffee.

It had all been expertly paired, and beautifully plated - it's the standard that the privileged and influential have afforded again in these times of galactic prosperity and carefully-maintained peace.

It's a far cry, and nearly unrecognisable from when they were young soldiers in the wars, eating their rations for survival and going for as long as necessary without food. They're not supposed to ever go hungry like that, ever again.

But on many occasions, and having tasted him, thick and with that lingering faintness of seawater and his searching, sweet kisses, she's concluded nothing will whet and satisfy her appetite, not quite as much.

X

Giannei Hordilier, the latest culinary celebrity, recommends half a pound of butter and that the mint sauce be prepared as a last step.

"That's crappy time management. If I did that last, the turkey would get cold right? Hah, cold turkey."

Then Giannei begins dicing the cranberries into quarters, explaining that it's nice to have these bits to decorate for plating.

"Seriously, just put it in a blender or pound it if you want sauce, why move so slowly?"

When Giannei is done with the asparagus and begins the plating, careful and almost anxious, she snorts.

"Ain't nobody got time for that fancy stuff when it's a home-cooked meal."

"Oh for goodness' sake, if you don't like the channel, then switch it." he says. "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times. Change it to the news or whatever, I don't care. Give that poor goddamned chef a break."

She's caught off-guard for a second. "It's my fucking hotel suite, in case you haven't realised."

"Alright." he says coolly, setting aside what he's been reading, his eyes staring down at her. "Next time you try complaining about how these chefs take so long to cook anything when we're in my hotel room or my place, the same applies to you."

"Oh, sod off." She sits up from where she's sprawled on the couch, bringing her head up from where she'd been resting on his lap. She shifts to face him, and pulls a face, something she'd never been able to do in public. "Don't take your shit out on me. I don't get all prissy with you and your neat freak, controlling ways, do I?"

"You do, actually." He looks at her, unmoved.

"Not all of it, bloody hell."

Three hours ago, they'd held each other in bed like they were afraid letting go would break them. But now, they're just like this, quibbling over what to watch.

In the end, they're just two silly people, living their lives as normally as they can. They're susceptible to that same petty squabbles when one inadvertently forgets that they'd nearly died together in those goddamned wars. It's strange, but if this is what her sacrifices have amounted to, then she'd do it all over again.

X

One morning, after he'd stayed the night and she made them both the heartiest savoury spring onion crepes for breakfast, she revealed to him that she had never cooked before being in the desert. Before she ran away from Orb, there had been no need to.

She'd found that the Resistance's members had duty rosters for the camps. The camps had thankfully housed enough portable cooking units and supplies most of the time, so that cooking for all of them was possible. But there, even starting fires in the tundras had been a challenge. Those on cooking duty had to cook quickly and make do almost every time.

When she shoos him off, often brushing off his efforts to help prepare a meal, it's no surprise to him that she still carries those habits.

X

She learns of his preference for cabbage rolls from her twin at some point.

He's never expressed anything about what he likes or doesn't like to eat. Each time she asks if he would like anything in particular, he doesn't have an answer, and seems to enjoy most of her cooking. Once, she had cooked a stewed curry fish, quite forgetting that spice could be a challenge for him. He'd actually perspired, but ate it all anyway.

So when she learns that he likes cabbage rolls, she finds the next occasion when they meet to stock up on the vegetables, and minced pork. For once, she even privately reads up on how to prepare something.

It's simple enough, although a bit tedious. On this evening, she's decided that it's weird having cabbage rolls on their own, so she cooks some rice and makes egg soup from the cabbage and meat stock. It turns out quite nicely, and she's timed it so well that she doesn't have to wait too long before he arrives.

She savours his look of surprise after she lets him through the door, kisses him and breaks off before he can deepen it. She says, "I hope you haven't eaten yet."

Like the rolls, his being here is simple enough, although a bit tedious. For him to even ring the doorbell, he would have had to drive quite a distance and make his way through the dozen or so automated and personnel security checks outside this gated estate.

He hangs his coat at the hook, loosens his tie, and leaves his briefcase at the east wing's main staircase when they pass by, on the way to the dining hall. They can fetch it later when they're headed up to the sea-facing room that she maintains for him, when they aren't meeting at his apartment, or some hotel outside Orb somewhere.

When he comes here and there's time for them to eat together, it's almost a clichè. It's like they're playing the white picket fence game, except that they both know that she cares for him more than anyone in or that she'll ever have in her life.

"I cooked today." she announces, leading him to the table. It's an extremely long and large table that could seat forty people if she was inclined to hold state dinners here under the lights of the chandeliers. For now, there's just her and him.

"Not in such a rush this time?" His eyes are crinkled with his smile as he takes in the simple dishes that she's placed on the table, and she's familiar enough with him to detect the slight teasing in his voice.

"I'm mad hungry and I don't want to shag you without dinner first. Welcome back to Orb, where you can't just dial-in for hotel room service."

He tsks at her forwardness, like he isn't capable of being worse, bringing his hand around her waist to draw her near. When he's pressing her body against his, he must know that her pulse starts racing and she wouldn't have protested if he just took her then.

But he just says,"You could have had the kitchen staff sent for - no need to trouble yourself."

"By the time they clear security, and got through to this estate, I'd have finished making a five-course dinner."

"Don't keep the staff on an ad-hoc basis then." He lets go and moves off to fetch glasses from the waiting automaton, cutting off the brief contact that had made her mouth go dry.

She snorts, trying to conceal how affected she was at his touch, pulling out a chair for him and taking her own seat. "You want me to pay them monthly with the national budget for mainting Orb noble families? Look, we've had this discussion. I don't really need live-in employees who probably won't do anything much while I'm out of here for most days of the year. Everything's mostly handled by machines and I like my privacy." She winks. "I'm a grown-up now."

That makes him laugh, apart from his concern at her having to exert more effort to prepare a meal. She watches as he brings up his sleeves, revealing those lithe forearms. He pours some water for her, signalling that the automaton should go back to its position and let him do it.

"I really like these." he admits, after sitting and they take a few bites. "It's good - really good. How did you know I had a craving for cabbage rolls?"

"I didn't." There's no point explaining the pointed conversation that Kira had with her, and the way her nephew had gurgled and smiled, waving his tiny hands at the sight of the video call. "It's just that I've been eating such rich food this month, I thought I'd better have some homemade stuff."

"I see." He chews, smiling a bit, and she puts another on his plate. He puts more food on her plate and she inclines her head in unspoken thanks.

She doesn't tell him that she'd woken up the other night, a few days ago while he was still training in Bolivia, with tears in her eyes. She'd dreamt that he had grown tired of this tedious arrangement, and left her. She doesn't tell him that it's a recurring dream.

She doesn't tell him that she hopes that these cabbage rolls will taste as nice as those from his and Kira's childhood in Coppernicus. She doesn't tell him that she wishes that she loved him with more weight than what she wants to fulfil for her country and her father.

X

Sometimes, when he watches her cook, or when he prepares a meal together with her, he entertains those recurring thoughts of those slim hips rounded, her breasts even fuller and swollen with sweet milk, marks on her thighs and her form glorious and heavy with their child.

He'd always have her there and then, he thinks. She would be even more sensitive, dripping and staining the dining tablecloth with every orgasm that he'd help her reach. He'd have her clutching at him, holding him close, and they'd explore the new ways of making love, and each time, she'd let him show her that they belong to each other.

On a significant number of occasions, he's had her over the kitchen counter - in his apartment; in the grand old mansion the ghosts of her past haunt; his parents' old summer home; some hotel that either of them is putting up at; the beach mansion that she finds refuge in. A few times, they were so lost that they'd more or less rendered the food so burnt that it was inedible.

Perhaps they'd form a typical family, where she could cast off the heavy mantle of her official duties as a head of state, a public figure, and a member of an Orb noble family. They'd go on walks and visit the seaside, and he'd teach their children to create tiny robots and play boardgames. They'd make and have meals together whenever possible, and they would tweak recipes that they'd enjoy together.

When he mulls over the possibilities, he knows that they would be strict parents - she'd certainly insist that their children put in their best efforts at everything and learn to be independent. Their children would be terrified of irritating her, but they'd be better off for it.

He would swear never to make the choices that his father made.

They'll never really starve, not again. Not as long as they can help it. But on some days, when he has the finest foods before him, and he thinks about these things; all the secrets and experiences that they've shared, as well as all those they keep from each other, he forgets to taste - he tastes nothing when he eats. There is no sustenance in the past.

X

It's a few evenings after her thirty-first birthday. They don't really celebrate each others' birthdays - he avoids fanfare whenever it involves himself, and she has an entire state for festivities.

She couldn't be with him on the day itself, but she had flown out here to Mauritius to meet him after he had invited her to spend a weekend at his newest holiday home.

The house is situated on a hill, and she can't help but pause to admire the red and gold flame and casuarina trees.

It's nearly impractical how isolated his holiday home is, and he's never been the kind who'd flaunt wealth or buy a place at some luxurious ocean front or choose something silly over a more rent-worthy place in a major city center. But thinks she knows why he'd sold some other extremely accessible property in Aprilius and bought this gorgeous, secluded villa, on some little island in the Indian Ocean, where people don't really care enough to recognise anyone.

She had dismissed her most trusted guards before entering the island, and he buzzes her in remotely when she stands at his gate. There are the usual security systems, and it's almost comforting to be greeted by automatons that scan her retina and the works. That much, she's used to.

When she's finally through, she wanders through the place, adjusting a small painting that's hung just a tad crooked. She likes this one - she wishes that he wouldn't trade so unemotionally, but then that wouldn't allow him to trade at all, perhaps.

Two automatons stand next to him in the small kitchen, and it's like they're a crowd, waiting for a soufflé to rise. She joins him at the counter to watch. It does.

He has an undeniable talent in getting things to fall into line, even if she always teases him and says that his efforts in the kitchen are better undertaken by some automaton.

"Would you like help?" One of the automatons says.

"No, thank you. Please be at rest." It glides off at his direction.

"You don't have to be so polite to automatons, do you?" It's not the first time she's teased him for his stiff, courteous ways, but he quirks a brow at her and she remembers that he can be anything but proper.

They go to sit at the wooden dining table when he takes it from the oven, and he smells intoxicatingly of vanilla and sugar. He bends over the table, adjusting something, and she thinks about how much she had wanted to see him when she had been surrounded by the crowds of well-wishers just days ago.

She's not that hungry for the cake, but he takes a knife, puts it in her hand and says, "It's a bit belated, but you should still make a wish."

"There aren't candles." she points out. "Not that I'm fuss, of course."

His eyes crinkle with his grin and he rubs the back of his head. "It's been a bit of time since I came here and actively stocked up on that kind of thing."

"Oh, hell, Athrun, I was just saying." She puts down the knife to stand and scoot closer, takes his face between her hands, and kisses him on the cheek, relaxing when he pulls her to sit in his lap. "Thanks for the birthday soufflé."

He smiles at her, and it's so simple and it should all be so simple that she has to look away. She moves back into her seat, takes the knife, and cuts into the soufflé, although there is really no need for that when they could eat with spoons.

The first bite of it is startling - it's really quite good. The second is comforting, because it's so fresh and warm, even if delicate and light-textured.

"Any good?"

"It's delish. Come on, have some."

She beckons for him to eat too. And he takes a bit, tasting very slowly, probably trying to decide if it went well or not.

She watches him. And then, against her better judgment, she says, "Don't you want to know what I wished for? You never asked."

He smiles, chewing a bit absentmindedly. "It won't come true if you ta-"

"I want us to be together - to be happy." she cuts in, and in horror, she realises that her voice is getting choked. "I want us to be free to be whoever we are and with each other."

He looks at her, going quite still.

"I want you to be free from all this bullshit you deal with when you're here with me. But I also want to be in your life, and I want you to be in mine."

She suddenly doesn't know what to say, and in desperation, she runs an impatient hand through her hair.

But he puts his spoon to the side, angles and props it against the dish's side so carefully, it's almost hilarious.

"I don't mind the bullshit." he says, after a long silence.

She scoffs. "For now, maybe. When will we get too old for this nonsense?"

"I don't know. But I want you to stay in my life too, because I want to be in yours. If what we have now makes you happy to continue, why not?"

She can't meet his eyes. "Then do you really want to be like this forever? We're always hiding away - I don't know how long I can survive like this, pretending that you're just someone else that I can push aside."

"Marry me then." he says, and he's so calm, seated there, the cake between them, like he's talking about the weather. Everything about him is so steadfast and certain, she doesn't know how he can be so sure. "I don't mind if we can't be like other people out there. We've never been in the most average circumstances, to begin with. I'd still like a life and family with you anyway. You've always known that."

"I don't think it's a great deal for you." She chokes out a laugh. It's all true, and she's always known what they've both wanted, but the time didn't seem right back then, and they've spent a decade like this already. "It's going to be a bloody field day if we ever make this public."

"You can't win all the time." he quotes.

He touches her cheek so gently, and she realises the dampness with a start. "Just tell me that you'll have nobody but me, and that you don't want anyone else. Can't you? I've been waiting so long for you."

X


End file.
